


seizure the day

by ccauchemar



Series: Espoir [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dissociative Identity Disorder, Psychogenic Seizures, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 07:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13266168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ccauchemar/pseuds/ccauchemar
Summary: Lacroix has a seizure.--Vent fic.





	seizure the day

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd, first-pass vent fic because I am having an absolute BITCH of an insomniac fit

Sometimes it really got to her that what happened in her head was a completely alien experience to most people; something they could not grasp. The average joe didn't sometimes experience life through the eyes of another self, through yourself as another, through the other as a brother. Or in this case, a sister, but not really a sister because they're not related and that would be weird and uncomfortable and quite frankly disgusting, considering the bonds they shared.

So thought Fatale, lounging in Sombra’s living room with her ankles crossed, reading a paperback crime thriller, as her other half sat with her legs tucked up underneath her and thought about flower arranging. Sombra had gone into her room to hack something, and would probably be back in fifteen or twenty minutes.

 _I'll have lilies, white lilies,_ Amélie thought, drawing invisible circular patterns on her invisible soft wine red skirt, the skirt that they both could see with their mind’s eyes but that did not physically exist. Her head was resting against Fatale’s shoulder, and a small mental bouquet was appearing and changing before her. _White lilies and beautiful daffodils, maybe some baby’s breath…_

“Baby’s breath for a baby?” Fatale said.

Amélie giggled. _Lena’s not a baby,_ she said.

“I'd buy you beautiful calla lilies and ferns, edelweiss and white orchids,” Fatale said, her voice taking on a musical lilt as she turned the page. The rain poured, the hero cornered the murderer.

Amélie smiled a smile Fatale could feel, an intangible tingle in their mindscape. “But it's for Lena,” Amélie said quietly, moving their mouth, letting her hand rest on her skirt.

Fatale’s vision flickered, and felt foreign, and she paused, and set the book down, thinking. “Just Lena?” she said, low and mellow, leaning forwards so that Amélie had to sit up straight. Her lips quirked at the corners. “Nobody else?”

 _Just Lena,_ Amélie said. _Gentle Lena. Not the rest of them._

“A bouquet for our love, in whole and in part,” Fatale murmured, and mentally motioned to give Amélie a kiss on the cheek. She settled back on the lounge to try and focus.

In the novel, the film noir-worthy hero cocked a pistol and levelled it at his soon-to-die enemy, rain pouring around them in a grungy nowhere-town and flooding the street of a lifeless suburb ( _obscuring the city like how her mind was all static, static she was trying to ignore)_. His scarred hand shook as he gripped the old gun, _(gripped with both hands)_ , years of experience _or years of conditioning,_ or was that her, she couldn't tell, steeling him _her_ as he closed his eyes and _she_ took a breath and she _pulled the trigger and watched him d-_

The heavy, overwhelming static pressure from the back of her skull flooded over Fatale, an irresistible fatigue that she tried to overcome, that dragged her limbs down, choking unsaid words in her throat. The paperback book fell into her lap, and her head lolled forwards, and she saw what was happening to her body but was powerless to stop, she was a passenger now, and nobody was driving.

Amélie fretted, patting Fatale’s shoulders and chest as her breathing became shallow and nasal. A minute passed. There was nothing either of them could do, as their mental vision became sharper, briefly, and then faded to white noise. Amélie was trying to help, and Fatale was trying to hold her, to reassure her, but where was Amélie in this forest of snow? Who was Amélie, was she a name, a hairstyle? Where had she heard that name before? And then she was gone, a different room in a maze of smoke and a haze of Talon.

With the slow rise and fall of their chest, her head rolled back over the arm of the chair. Wide eyes stared at the ceiling, seeing without seeing. Images of violence and years of subservience flickered and flashed through her mind. Three right fingers and one right thumb curled into a rigid shape. An awful breath rattled into her lungs, through the apnea.

One immaculately painted right index finger twitched, and hovered, and twitched. It curled mechanically, once, twice, pause, three four five, completing a motion drilled deep, deep, deep into her subconscious.

Her left hand snapped into a claw shape and instantaneously relaxed. She kicked the other arm of the lounge. Her head jerked to the side. Her left arm flew out in the motion of grapple mine grapple mine, flailing in the air, then something changed in the static and her whole body jerked, spine arched and head twitched to the left, again, painfully, and she helplessly watched herself roll right, off the couch and onto the tile floor. Her head jerked twice, and she groaned like a ghoul. She kicked out, catching her toe on a table, and now her foot hurt, to add to the injustice of it all. And again her trigger finger fired and fired and her arm went out in a flurry of motion, _mine mine grapple twist reload grapple mine_

 _Olivia_ , she tried to say, but her vocal chords weren't her own, and she barely managed the ghost of a wheeze. The tile floor was uncomfortable, and her arms were getting tired, so tired. But there was nothing she could do to stop it. Then her foot kicked the table again, and again, and she could hear the lamp fall off. Where was Sombra?? She needed someone, anyone, but between _rifle_ and _kill_ and _obey_ she could barely think at all.

She was cold and uncomfortable and spasming on the floor for a long time before Sombra walked out, and saw her, and swore.

“Shit shit shit calaca I'm so sorry it's okay, I'm here, it's me,” Sombra said, hauling the couch out of the way and crouching by her shoulders. “It's me, listen, shh,” she crooned, cupping the sides of Lacroix’s head. The jerking stopped in her neck almost immediately, as if soothed by Sombra’s presence. “Look, you're safe, it's okay…”

A rattling, groaning noise emanated from the ex-sniper’s throat. Her left hand twitched into a claw shape.

“It's me, Amélie… Fatale… Which of you was it… Look, okay, I know you're not in a good position to be answering right now… But I'm here,” Sombra said, lifting her head off the floor and into her lap with a grunt so she could stroke her hair off her forehead. “I'm here, just you relax now…”

Fatale, lost somewhere in the whirlwind of her mind, seeing everything but unable to control it, fell gratefully into the soothing sound and touch. The spasms faded to twitches, and, as Sombra’s gentle hands played with her hair, her breathing deepened, and the fog began to subside.

 _Fatale!_ came the exhausted voice from the back of her mind, and Amélie hugged her tighter than anything. Fatale pulled her close and kissed her hair, her cheeks, her forehead, in their inner world. In Sombra’s lap, she shifted, and groaned.

“Hey, calaca,” Sombra said, voice low, and leant down to kiss her.

Fatale groaned again, and blinked repeatedly, trying to focus her eyes. “That's gay,” said her mouth, and she pushed herself up with shaky arms, failed horribly, and lay in Sombra’s lap.

“Noooooo, no no no, you are staying right here,” Sombra said, and kept her down. “I'll get you food and water in a minute but until then, stay down. How are you feeling, …?”

“Fatale,” said Fatale, and shuffled around.

“Ohhh, okay, you are DEFINITELY staying put, you grumpy determined idiot,” Sombra said, and patted her hair a little more aggressively than before.

“I'm exhausted, Olivia,” Fatale sighed. “I want to rest…”

“Change of plans. Let's get up, come on then, to the bed we go…”

Ten minutes later, the sniper’s legs were tangled with Sombra’s. The small hacker had her arms wrapped around Lacroix, and the two lay together, in comfortable, peaceful, sleepy silence. Talon was a long way away, and they were safe.


End file.
